


The Christmas Case

by stringingwords



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Clexa, Detective!Lexa, F/F, Holiday, Holmesian, Mystery, Victorian, noblewoman!clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-13 02:23:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12973653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stringingwords/pseuds/stringingwords
Summary: Set in Victorian England, Lexa is a holmsian detective who stumbles upon a case whose clues lead her to the marchioness's daughter.





	1. The Painting

**Author's Note:**

> I know the main point of holiday fics is fluff, but my muse is a sucker for a bit of mystery and I, as usual, am her humble servant.

‘I’m sorry, but I do believe you’ve come to the wrong house.’

‘And I am certain I have not,’ Lexa replies, tone even.

The stare she fixes him with has made many a lesser man tremble, and his visible discomfort borders on the squirmy. Nonetheless, she can tell by the subtle hardening of his jaw that he is still adamant not to let her in.

‘Thank you, Hughes, I’ll take it from here.’

The voice is young, breezy even, but with a casual authority. The speaker is evidently used to being obeyed. 

‘But sir…’

‘That’ll be all, Hughes,’ he replies merrily.

Lexa watches with no small satisfaction as the butler huffs, muttering discontentedly under his breath as he exits through the hall.

‘My apologies, detective. He can be a little over-protective. It was good of you to come on such short notice.’

Lexa takes the proffered hand. The grip is firm, but not overbearing. Confident without anything to prove. She meets it. 

‘But of course, Lord Jaha, your account of the events was most interesting.’

‘Wells, please. Lord Jaha is my father.’

Lexa nods in acquiescence but does not offer her first name in return. 

‘And where is the Earl of Arcaster?’

The man’s swarthy skin turns a shade darker. _Ah_.

‘Hopefully far too busy in his study to take any interest in our little project,’ he admits.

Lexa nods again. So the master of the house likely does not approve of her taking an interest. Not ideal. Not new either.

‘Shall we, then?’

The boy nods and springs into action. Well, not quite a boy, not that much younger than Lexa herself. And by all the looks of it well on the way to becoming a fine man, as much as such a thing is not oxymoronic in Lexa’s view. But he’s not quite there yet, with his naïve eagerness and open trust. The world will show him otherwise.

‘This is where it’s usually kept,’ he explains, leading her into a room that seems reserved for the display of art pieces. 

The paintings are tasteful, hung expertly with the odd sculpture even if their display borders on pretentious. The Earl of Arcaster is well-known for his little demonstrations of wealth. She notices there is no gap evidencing where the missing painting hung.

‘Used to be?’ she inquires distractedly, eyes flicking around the room, mapping doors, windows, and imaginary escape routes. 

‘It was removed the morning of the robbery to be cleaned and wrapped. It was meant to be Clarke’s Christmas gift.’

‘Clarke?’

‘Lady Griffin, that is. The Marchioness’s daughter.’

Lexa nods, scribbles the name onto her writing pad. There was no need to specify which Marchioness. There is only one of any note in these parts.

‘Where was it moved to?’

‘A small room we use for temporary storage. I’ll show you.’

Lexa follows him down the hall; ostentatious, even in what she can imagine is a little-used wing of the estate. 

The room however, is simple in contrast. A wooden desk and worn chair in the center, surrounded by haphazardly placed paintings in various states of unwrapping. 

‘Old Maxie had brought it here, given the frame a bit of a polish, and then locked the room up for the night.’

‘And the painting was definitely removed that night?’

‘It wasn’t here when he returned, at around 8 yesterday morning.’

‘You trust this Maxie?’

‘Absolutely. He’s been with us for decades.’

Lexa scribbles the information on her pad.

‘Are there any other keys?’ Lexa asks, examining the lock. ‘The lock does not appear to have been tampered with.’

‘Well, I suppose my father has one somewhere in his study. And Hughes the butler. But other than that, I don’t think so. It’s not used by many people.’

More scribbling. Lexa notes that the window is sealed shut, and likely too small for anyone but a child to enter. 

She proceeds to the desk, where the painting would’ve been left to dry. Looking for marks or clues. Once she retrieves a fiber which she wraps in a handkerchief and pockets. She even bends to sniff the table, much to Wells’s amusement. 

‘What, may I ask, is going on here?’

Wells spins on the spot and Lexa notices the immediate shift in the boy’s manner. Shoulder blades pulled back, spine stiff. He’s tense, on edge, ready for an attack. 

‘Father, this is the detective I spoke to you about, Alexandra Woods. I’ve asked to come help find the missing painting.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, boy, that’s a woman, not a detective. I told you yesterday to leave the matter to the constable.’

Behind the tall man, Lexa can see the butler looking exceptionally smug. So that’s what happened.  
She sees a muscle tick in the boy’s jaw. He’s preparing to fight back, by all signs a rare occurrence that requires a great deal of strength. She uses the distraction to appraise the earl.

‘With all respect, sir, the constables showed no sign of looking into the matter before Christmas. You know what that painting means to Clarke. I need it back before Christmas.’

‘That girl needs to put her grief aside and focus on the future,’ the disdain drips from his words. ‘And your feeding of this ridiculous prolonged mourning is absurd. It’s one thing for women to be unstable, they can hardly escape their basic genetic makeup, but you.’

Lexa can see the heat in the boy’s face, has to bite her own tongue to keep from answering. She has long learned to ignore such views, losing one’s temper is rarely profitable. But the angry thudding of her heart tells her her body does not always agree with her mind.

‘Lord Jaha, is there any chance someone might’ve taken the spare key from your study?’ Her words are abrupt, slicing through the tension with forced neutrality.

‘The nerve,’ he replies, turning to her. ‘You come into my house uninvited and accuse me of being unable to keep track of my possessions?’

Lexa doesn’t bother to point out that neither is she uninvited, nor is he the all-knowing protector of his belongings he would have them believe. Her gaze meets his; fixed, undaunted.

‘What about your key?’ she asks, looking past the earl the butler standing behind him.

‘I…’ 

‘That is enough, you have no authority to questions my staff. Hughes, see her out now.’

Lexa lowers her gaze and begins leisurely writing something for the sole purpose of keeping the earl on edge. 

‘I haven’t got time for loitering, Miss Woods,’ he snaps icily.

Lexa nods, replaces her hat. She tips it cordially to Wells, ignoring his father as he moves to make way for her in the hall.

Hughes is stiff on the walk down. Overly-defensive, hatches battened firmly down. Perhaps too much so for an innocent man. Lexa makes a point of looking at him sharply out of the corner of her eye every now and then, watches his neck flush and his hand begin a little nervous jingle. Not the behavior of a man with nothing to hide.

He’s afraid she’ll asks him again. She decides to surprise him by keeping silent. 

They reach the front door. He opens it with an ill-suppressed flourish. Force of habit, no doubt.

‘Well, Mr. Bingham, your hospitality has been much appreciated.’

The man startles a little at the use of a name he didn’t provide. Lexa uses the moment to sweep into her carriage. Once settled, she lifts her walking stick to tap the roof, but is interrupted by knuckles rapping on the carriage door. 

The younger Jaha’s face pants into view.

‘Please, detective. I hope my father hasn’t put you off the case. He was born ornery and can’t be helped,’ he adds with a sad smile. ‘I can still pay your fee. My mother’s left me money…’

‘Not to worry, Wells. This case has intrigued me. I shall contact you when I have something to report. In the meantime, would you ascertain where the other two keys are and whether they might have been taken by someone else on the night in question.’

‘I’ll do my best, ma’am.’

‘Well then, I expect we shall speak again very soon.’

And she taps the roof, allowing herself a small chuckle at the use of ‘ma’am’ from someone practically her age.

\-------  
‘Well, where’ve you been. I’m famished and there’s no one to cook.’

Lexa waves a haphazard salute, not bothering to look up from the list of staff currently employed by the Earl of Arcaster.

‘Did you not hear me, Miss Scribbler? I require sustenance,’ Anya insists.

‘Judy can fix you something,’ Lexa replies, still not turning to her friend.

‘Judy?’ she scoffs, ‘Judy’s not here. You gave her three weeks’ leave so she could visit her family in Wales.’

‘So I did,’ Lexa agrees after a moment’s thought.

‘When was the last time you ate?’

‘When did Judy leave?’

‘Two days ago.’

‘That sounds about right.’

Anya rolls her eyes dramatically. 

‘These little projects of yours are all very well and good, but if you’re going to die of starvation because some nobleman lost his favorite pillow, I hope your testament provides for the cleaning of your death stench from our quarters.’

‘Mmh,’ Lexa agrees, absorbed in her musings.

‘Lexa, on your parents’ graves I will feed you!’

Lexa scowls at that. 

‘Just give me a minute and we’ll go to the pub.’

Anya drapes her elegant frame across the armchair and picks a book off the nearest pile, settling in for what’s sure to be more than a minute.

A quarter of an hour later, Lexa emerges from what Anya has come to call her ‘thinking trance’ (‘Thinking’s so hard for that one, she literally can’t do anything else while she tries it.’) and looks up.

‘Supper then?’

‘And breakfast, while we’re at it. By the looks of you, you’ll be knocked over by snowflakes on the way.’

Lexa rolls her eyes. The blond may be taller, but they’ve proven to be equally matched in a fight. Repeatedly. And Anya has proven to be just the friend to have along when facing off shady characters in alleys.

\-------

‘So, what’s this new case then?’ Anya asks around a mouthful of food.

‘A stolen painting from the Earl of Arcaster’s estate.’

‘The Earl of Arcaster? That old dodger would never hire you.’

Lexa scowls.

‘I don’t mean…Look, for reasons unknown to myself the stream of hopeless, desperate individuals battering down our door at all hours would suggest you are…fairly competent.’

‘The best in London.’

‘But that does not explain the earl’s change of heart.’

‘His son hired me,’ Lexa admits. ‘By his account, the painting is of some sentimental value to the Marchioness’s daughter and he was distraught at the thought of not being able to give it to her for Christmas.’

‘Marchioness de Cleavarge?’

‘Who else?’

‘Isn’t she the one who had her jewels go missing this week?’

‘What’s that?’

‘Ah, just something I heard. A rumor, no more. You know my currency is information.’

‘Seems it will be worth paying the marchioness a visit.’

Anya sighs. ‘It all sounds rather dull. I don’t suppose there’s any talking you out of it? You know these nobles have paintings and jewels to spare.’

‘Better not tell them that or I’ll be out of a job.’

‘True. And you _are_ insufferable when you have nothing to set that greedy little mind too. But if it involves chemistry laboratories in the parlor to extract hazy clues from dubious fibers, you’ll have to find new rooms.’

‘That clue led to the capture of the notorious pigmy bandit.’

‘So you claim. All I know is the burn mark is still visible on my ceiling and the smell had me staying at Indra’s for weeks. You have been warned, Woods.’

‘Duly noted.’

And with that, Lexa’s mind turned to what she might learn at the marchioness’s estate in the morning.


	2. The Jewels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting from the train so this chapter is both an update and an interactive typo hunt. Enjoy!

The marchioness’s estate is a grand structure, the kind designed to strike reverence in the hearts of onlookers, no doubt in the hope that they will transfer said reverence to its inhabitants. It’s not as austere as the earl’s estate, however. The stone is lighter and catches the sun, more alluring than menacing.

Lexa steps up to the door, posture impeccable as is her trademark. She learned years ago when first fighting to get a foothold in the business that one would say what they liked and brandish what weapons they chose, but we're wired to instinctively react to another animal’s posture. Hers told them she would not be intimidated. And if they couldn’t scare her, didn’t that make her stronger? It was enough to make most people second-guess themselves. Sometimes that’s all the time you needed.

‘May I help you, Miss?’ 

The last word is a question. Did he want to say Madam? My lady? His age, going on 60 by the wrinkles on his face, though the hands would be more precise if he wasn’t wearing gloves, won out hence the ‘Miss’. But his years of etiquette training have his mind whirring wondering if he’s just made an unforgivable mistake in the world of service. She watches the struggle play nicely across his face. The uncertainty will be to her advantage.

‘Detective Woods,’ she offers, breezing past him and into the atrium. ‘I’m here to see one of the ladies of the house.’

‘Er…I’m afraid the marchioness is indisposed...detective.’

Detective seems to be a greater challenge to utter than miss. He’s still frozen with his hand on the door, as if tightening his grip on that will keep things from getting too out of hand.

‘Oh no matter, I’m happy to speak to the Dowager or Lady Clarke. I’m here about the jewels.’

The man exhales at last. Apparently whatever scenario had flourished in his mind had been worse.

‘A moment then. I will see if either of them are available.’

Lexa nods and he strides purposefully into the hall. She removes her hat and dusts the snow from her coat. Winter isn’t quite in full swing but there’s a chill in the air. 

The butler returns presently, looking slightly flushed. 

Lexa quirks an eyebrow enquiringly. The man stiffens to the appropriate posture. 

‘Er…the dowager will see you, my la- detective. Let me see you into the drawing room.’

The drawing room is tasteful, bordering on lavish. Anya was definitely right about the paintings and jewels to spare.

‘My, my, look at you, dear. He wasn’t lying, was he, Clarke?’

The older woman inclines her head sideways to give Lexa the full appraisal. Lexa’s rather used to being on display when she dons her detective cap and only uses the time to stare right back. 

The dowager has aged well thanks to a life of comfort, though she does seem rather overly-dressed for sitting in her dressing room. Her face is determined, though not unkind, and her eyes are keen and cunning, dancing with both the wisdom of years and a glint of mischief. A formidable character who’s had years to perfect getting her way.

‘When Rupert told me there was someone here about the jewels I thought to myself, ‘Hogwash! We haven’t even told Scotland Yard why on Earth would they send someone?’ When he told me it was a woman, well, here was something I just had to see. Charlatan or not, my dear, you are daring. And I wanted a look at that.’

She had made good use of her arms throughout her speech. Lexa felt the hint of a smile pull at her face. In another life they two might’ve got on famously.

‘Hold still, Granny, or you’ll have eight arms in this portrait.’ 

The voice is somewhere between a lazy drawl and a sigh of exasperation, as if she couldn’t care less if ‘granny’ came out with eight arms, but suffering Sappho if she hasn’t had to put up with her antics for far too long. 

Lexa turns to find a sizable canvas blocking most of her view of the second speaker. The sun is behind her, perfect light for painting no doubt, turning her blond hair golden and casting shadows over her face. Even the eyes are somewhat hidden, though they seem to be light. They’re certainly intense as they watch the detective, and Lexa feels her ears heat up under the stare this time.

‘Well by all means let’s take a break then. I think I’ll need my hands during this interrogation. One never knows what might be flung at oneself.’

Once again Lexa has to bite back the smile.

‘My lady, it has come to my attention that a number of jewels have gone missing from this estate last week.’

‘You can say stolen, you know, my daughter-in-law isn’t here and it is always best to call a thing by its proper name.’

A smirk from the blonde, not that Lexa is watching her out of the corner of her eye. Well, not her specifically. A detective must always be aware of the room.

‘Very well, stolen then. Were these jewels of any particular value?’

‘Why no, only family heirlooms that have been with us for generations since our ancestors left France. Legend has it that they were a gift from Louis the XIV himself, but then that’s as likely to be a rumor made up by my great uncle Albert. So no, nothing of any particular ’

Lexa pulls out her pad and begins writing. 

‘And where were they kept?’

‘Ah, who knows. That is the great mystery of the Marquesses de Cleavarge, is it not? Where is the mysterious safe?’

‘Or as I like to call it, the rusty box under mother’s bed.’

The dowager tuts only half-disapprovingly at her granddaughter’s disclosure. Clarke shrugs, never taking the eyes off the sketchpad she’s now holding. Lexa can’t help noticing how her eyes—blue she sees now—keep flicking from the paper to her. She tries not to think about it.

‘When did they go missing?’

‘Ah, who knows. They are only ever looked at every few decades. They were discovered missing on Thursday last, but may well have disappeared back when I could see more than a meter in front of me.’

Lexa makes a few more notes, ever aware that her pen is not the only one scratching paper in the room.

‘How did you come to hear about it?’ 

The granddaughter’s voice has changed. It’s sharper, challenging. Finally matching her eyes.

‘We didn’t report it as a crime as mother is convinced they are only misplaced. And no one here hired you to look into it.’

‘No,’ Lexa replies, meeting her stare unwavering. ‘I was hired by Lord Wells Jaha to look into a stolen painting and thought perhaps the missing jewels might be of interest.’

‘Seems a bit of a leap, does it not?’ Clarke observes.

‘Perhaps. But one never knows what might be of interest in a case until it is solved.’

‘You really are a proper detective, aren’t you, with your questions and scribbling?’

Lexa turns back towards the Dowager, considers telling her that her posture and slight favoring of one side means she was an expert rider, something she has not done at all this year judging by her pallor. She still wears her wedding band, although her husband passed away long before her son. It's well-polished showing loyalty more than dedication to habit. She cared for him then, a rare occurrence were marriages are a matter of convenience. She's hot under those clothes now and especially wishes to remove the gloves, and yet she sits there calmly humoring her granddaughter. Not usual behavior for one old and powerful enough to get her way. They are bonded then, these two, possibly knit together by the marquess’s death, a circle the marchioness has, by all appearances, been knit out of. Their cynical banter was perhaps their form of mourning. Oh, and she likely had eggs for breakfast with a bit of toast.

But Lexa says none of this. She only tips her hand when it gives her the upper one.

‘I am, my lady,’ she replies simply.

‘Well bravo! That’s just the sort of thing that I would’ve done if it were at all a dignified pursuit of a woman of nobility.’

Lexa only raises an eyebrow in reply.

‘Clarke, I cannot believe we haven’t offered her tea. You must take tea with us Miss…?’

‘Woods, Alexandra Woods.’

‘Ah, a strong name. I do believe you will make something of yourself yet, Miss Woods. Lorna?’

‘Yes, my lady.’ 

A shorter woman with a pretty face and hair clipped neatly back stepped into the room. The dowager had not even raised her voice to summon her, meaning she must’ve been waiting nearby.

‘Would you tell Alice we’ll be wanting tea, please. And to place an extra setting for Miss Woods.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Lexa catches her eyes flicking to her; curious, watchful.

‘What’s this I hear about guests in my home without my knowledge?’

A woman in her mid-forties strides regally into the room, sweeping off her gloves and handing them to her lady’s maid as she does so. She’s one of those people that looks taller than she is, seems to occupy more space. Her hair is a shade darker than Clarke’s, worn up to offset her sharp, handsome features. So this is the famous Abby Griffin, Marchioness de Cleavarge, de facto head of the estate since her husband’s unexpected passing, though rumor has it she ran the place long before them.

‘Ah mother, splendid. This is Detective Woods. She’s come to investigate the stolen family jewels.’

The marchioness’s skin darkens slightly, the only clue to her shock, which Lexa can only surmise was Clarke’s intention.

‘Yes, we’ve asked her to tea so we can go over the particulars in detail. You know what they say, leave no stone unturned,’ the dowager adds deadpan.

‘I’ve told you two that those jewels have not been stolen, only moved to one of the other vaults. The only reason they haven’t been found yet is because I have an estate to run and I don’t want the footmen poking about in family heirlooms without me.’

‘So you keep saying, mother, although I’ve offered to look through the vaults for you.’

‘Ah,’ she waves the notion away like an annoying bug, ‘you wouldn’t have the faintest idea where to begin, dear. You only saw them as a girl.’

Clarke rolls her eyes, catches Lexa watching her and exaggerates the gesture.

‘I’m very sorry for your inconvenience, Miss…Woods was it? As you can see, there is really no case to solve here, and no need to take up any more of your time.’

The words are polite enough, as polite as a request to get the hell of one’s property can be. Lorna the lady’s maid hasn’t moved either. It would appear tea has been cancelled.

‘Well, I suppose that’s my cue then,’ Lexa says good-naturedly. ‘Although, if you don’t mind my saying so, my lady, to an outside observer, it does seem rather unlikely to have casually misplaced family heirlooms of inestimable worth.’

‘Then perhaps outside observers have no notion of the amount of time and effort required in the daily management of an estate.’

‘Perhaps,’ Lexa allows neutrally.

‘My lady, Miss Griffin, it’s been a pleasure,’ she says with a nod.

\-------

‘What in Athena’s name is this?’ Anya growls as she steps around the dirt mounds on her carpet. ‘If you want to live on the ground you don’t have to bring it in here, I’m more than happy to kick you out.’

‘Not to worry, Judy will have that sorted.’

‘Oh you mean the Judy who is away for two weeks?’ 

‘The very one. It’s not like you’ll die from a fortnight’s exposure to nature.’

‘Honestly, grounder, do you have to traipse your little hobbies into our rooms.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

Lexa turns from the mirror where she had been carefully removing what remained of her facial disguise.

‘You went to the races today, but not to bet. A problem with the dogs perhaps, you suspected foul play?...The look says yes. You found the culprit, bit of a struggle. You bested him. Bought yourself a drink at McGinley’s to celebrate.’

‘I won’t ask how.’

‘Mud splatter, color particular to the race tracks, too much of it if you’d stayed in the crowd. Shirt creased below the shoulder on both sides. One side is explainable if someone takes hold of you by accident or to steady themselves or call your attention, both sides shows intentionality. The grip was strong, big hands. The scuff on your shoe matches the color of the wood at McGinley’s, that and the tone of your voice which is two-thirds of an octave higher, tells me you were there and had a drink. And you only go there when you win.

‘Ah, but you were wrong about one thing. I didn’t buy my own drink. The poor chap I bested was so impressed by my prowess he insisted on treating me to the whisky of my choice.’

‘Well, knowing that your acrid personality puts the chances of someone buying you a drink at 0.6%, that was just bad luck. I suppose there is always a 6 in 1000 chance that I could be wrong.’

‘Braggart.’

‘That’s why I do it. I’m afraid I would go mad if I didn’t.’

‘Good point. And I with you. But where in Hades were you today?’

‘The marchioness’s estate in the morning. Then popped by the earl’s for a bit of gardening.’

‘Gardening? You can just tidy our own rooms if you need a bit of manual labor.’

‘I needed to check the flowerbeds under the windows, see if there were any disturbances.’

‘And?’

‘None. The thief got in another way.’

‘Any theories?’

'Mmh, it’s remarkable what people will tell you when you shovel dirt alongside them. There was a party the night of the theft, a small affair, by all accounts, but lots of coming and going both through the main gate and the kitchen entrance for supplies. What is more, someone found the butler’s keys in the bushes near the rear entrance. Apparently he did not have them with him after all.’

‘Do you suspect him?’

‘Hardly seems the type. And if he had done it he would not have left the keys.’

‘Someone else then. Entered while the servants were busy upstairs, took the painting, left the way they came in, dropped the keys on the way out.’

‘Except the keys were found before 8:30. The cook remembers because the bell rang at 8:30 as a 10-minute warning for the first course and they were all in the middle of a discussion about the keys then. So the timing doesn’t fit.’

‘The thief left early.’

‘Far too much traffic around the servants’ entrance before dinner. Leaving with a painting undetected would’ve been impossible. The guests were arriving at the main entrance so that way was not an option either.’

‘Hmm, flew up the chimney perhaps. It is that time of year after all. What of the marchioness’s jewels?’

‘I’m not certain. She claims they were only misplaced, but her daughter and mother-in-law don’t seem to share that sentiment. I’ve heard some talk that the estate’s finances might not be what they seem. The marchioness is proud, but astute and ruthless,’ Lexa adds, recalling her antagonistic dismissal. ‘I wouldn’t put it past her to sell the jewels if the estate needed income, and then continuing to claim they were simply buried in the family vaults.’

‘So you think it’s unconnected?’

‘I have yet to collect all the facts. There is nothing worse than drawing conclusions without facts…’

‘Because one starts to twist facts to fit conclusions rather than conclusions to fit facts.’ Anya interrupts with a sing-song voice and an eyeroll. ‘You know, if you take a guess once in a while you may end up drinking whisky at McGinley’s without being covered in dirt.’

Lexa cracks a smile.

‘I’ll keep that in mind.’


	3. The Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot grows legs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick update while the sib sleeps.

‘Thank you for meeting me here on such short notice.’

‘The telegram did say it was urgent, and you know I hate being curious; it consumes unnecessary brain power. Still afraid to meet me at Scotland Yard, I see.’

The man blushes. He’s over a head taller than Lexa, boasting an enviable muscle mass that more than doubles her own sinewy form. Not a bad look for someone who makes his living interrogating suspects. But tucked into the bulk is a kindness Lexa sometimes thinks of when her faith in humanity wears thin.

‘Ah, you know how it is. The others, they’re happy to turn to you when we’re desperate because a killer’s on the loose. But if it’s too often and they start thinking we can’t crack a case without you, and well…there’s no need to stir up unnecessary resentment. Especially since...’ he trails off when he notices Lexa’s eyes have glazed over. 

His silence regains her attention.

‘Perhaps this one of those times when I should apologize for ignoring social conventions. Only the egos in your department are of no importance to me, Lincoln, and the mind is better employed elsewhere. What’s this you had to tell me about a horse?’

He shakes his head good-humoredly and obliges. ‘A pure-bred mare has gone missing from the Blake’s estate.’

‘I’m assuming they have grooms to help with this sort of problem.’

‘They claim it was stolen, from the stables no less, not the corral. Sometime last night.’

‘You know ordinary theft is of no interest to me. The answers tend to be far too obvious.’

‘I know. But when they said it was being groomed as a gift for the marchioness’s daughter I thought you might be interested.’

At last there’s a glint of interest in her eyes. ‘How did you hear of that? Never mind. As usual Anya is not to be trusted.’

Lincoln laughs. 

‘Have you found anything of interest so far?’

‘Not much. Seems there was no one on watch and many possible ways of escape. We will of course look into it further, the horse was worth a small fortune, but if you do find a connection it will be one less thing for me to worry about before the holidays.’

Lexa nods.

‘You’re coming round, aren’t you?’

‘Round where?’

‘Christmas dinner. Anya told me you’re down to one meal a day now that Judy’s gone. Can’t have that on Christmas.’

Lexa huffs. ‘I have one of the most brilliant minds in the country and will not be fussed over.’

‘One which can hardly bother to keep itself fed. You solve my crimes and I’ll make the mince pies.’

She gives him her best scowl, but his smile tells her he knows she’s secretly looking forward to it.

\-------

‘Who are you again?’ 

Baroness Blake had been unwilling to interrupt her afternoon reflection period (or nap as the servant’s involuntary smirk would suggest) to meet with the detective, sending her son instead. And while Lexa is used to dealing with all sorts, she finds herself wondering if burying her head in a pile of manure would make it stop. It being his senseless, self-aggrandizing prattle.

‘Detective Woods,’ she replies absently while inspecting the snow-to-mud ratio. ‘I was hired by Lord Jaha to investigate a stolen painting.’

‘And what has that to do with our horse? Surely, Miss Woods, one does not need to be a detective to see that a painting and are horse are not the same kind of thing at all. I really think you should leave the matter to Scotland Yard. As incompetent as they are, too many amateurs poking around can only befog things.’

‘Befog? Oh Hela it’s a good thing no one pays you to think, brother mine.’

The new voice draws Lexa’s attention back from where she’d been using her pen to measure a bootprint.

‘Octavia Blake, detective. Impressive work on the Glensfield Case.’

‘A fairly straightforward matter really,’ Lexa says dismissively. 

‘O, this is all terribly unnecessary. Scotland Yard…’

‘Does not have an impeccable track record like Detective Woods.’

‘Closer to 98.5% success rate,’ Lexa corrects absently, still not looking up.

The weather warmed slightly this morning, turning the snow to slush resulting in messy, if distinguishable imprints.

‘Either way, it’s my horse, Bellamy. My gift to Clarke, my decision.’

The man shrugs, seems to contemplate whether his manly dignity can be better preserved by staying or going. He settles on huffing and crossing his arms in a poor bid for the supervisory role.

The Blake siblings make quite the striking pair; proud, fiery, with features that may as well have been carved by Grecian sculptor. Their self-assurance is not only high birth and privilege either. Their movements are easy, fluid; they’re at home in their bodies, as those who know the feats they are capable of. The downside obviously being arrogance in one and impulsivity in the other. 

Lexa moves from the area around the stable door to the door itself. 

‘Do you think there’s a connection, detective?’

‘I know there is.’

‘How?’ she asks, coming closer to see what Lexa’s looking at. 

Part of her wants to sigh impatiently while another knows she may yet have need of the more tolerable Blake sibling. 

‘The footprints. They match those of the intruder at the earl’s property on the night of the theft in both size, imprint, and depth, if we account for the softer soil.’

The floppy-haired Blake, first name unimportant and therefore unregistered, scoffs.

‘You can’t base your findings on a bootprint.’

‘Can’t I? Not even if said bootprint contains traces of itea virginica, a plant native to North America, but which the earl had especially imported for his botanical garden; nor because it contains the same blackish earth added to compensate when the plants are moved to our own rather poor, brownish soil? Even if the chance that both traces would have been picked up by dinner guests or drivers that night are about 3,746 to one as none visited the back gardens and they are kept quite separate from the main lawns? I assure you, Lord Blake, that irrespective of you deeming a connection between the crimes preposterous, it persists undaunted.’

That appears to render him momentarily speechless. She uses the reprieve to question his sister. 

‘You have quite the collection of horses. Does no one watch the stables at night?’

‘The head groom, Seamus, has his rooms just above the stables. But he slept right through it.’

‘Hmm,’ Lexa murmurs, inspecting a crack in the door frame. ‘I’ll need to speak to him.’

\-------

It takes a while for the head groom to be located, long enough for Lexa to survey the lay of Blake Park. It’s expansive and hilly, with lush trees providing ample cover in the dark. And dark it was, no moon last night. There are a smattering of farm houses at one end and a couple of gate houses, but the entire east section seems to have been left to the horses and an experienced rider who knew the lay of the land could easily have gotten out that way. Naturally, ice-coated rocks and hidden ditches could just as easily have meant a broken neck.

‘Och, a lass as a detective. Now ah’ve seen i’tall.’

Lexa turns to face the Scotsman, a difficult feat owning to his bounteous whiskers. _If the man wishes to hide his identity that’s certainly one way to do it. Any self-respecting Scotsman is expected to have a beard._

He motions them out of the cold and into his kitchen. The wind still has quite a bite to it and even floppy-hair doesn’t object to entering the humble abode. It’s rudimentary, but not untidy.

‘You were here last night?’ she asks, pen at the ready.

‘Aye, like every night. Tha horses feel safer when their caretaker is about. Makes ‘em less likely ta go wanderin’ off.’

‘But they were all in the stable last night because of the snow.’

‘Aye. But the stable’s ne’er locked at night. Jus’ barred. The horses canna ge’ outta their own stalls.’

The room is silent as Lexa takes it down.

‘Tell me about the horse.’

‘Ah, she was a beauty! Worthy of Lady Griffin’s skill.’

‘Is she an accomplished horsewoman?’

‘One of the best in these parts, second only perhaps to Lady Blake here.’ 

Octavia nods in confirmation. 

‘E’er since they two took ta sitting astride tha beast instead o’ sidesaddle there’s no stoppin’ em.’

‘So the horse was not being trained for sidesaddle riders?’

‘Och, nay. Tha’ one hae far too much spirit fer sidesaddle. Woulda been a shame ta break her.’

Also means the mare would’ve been more valuable and far easier to sell, the demand for sidesaddle horses being much smaller.

‘Can you give me an account of your evening? Try to be as thorough as possible. Leave nothing out, no matter how trivial.’

‘Billy an’ I finished bringin’ the horses in at around 6. We’re both soaked ta the bone on account o’ the snow, an’ I suggested we hae a…cuppa tea ‘fore continuin.’

Lexa writes silently. _Drink around 6. Whisky?_

‘Then we rubbed tha horses down and mixed their food. I remember we were still at it at 7:30 for wee Billy asked if I wouldna mind finishin’ up. He has a lass in town he’s sweet on, ya see. She had tha night off an’ they’d arranged ta meet. Ah told ‘im ta be off but in return he’d do all the manure shovelin’ taday. The laddie scampered off with tha widest smile you’ve ever seen. Neva seen someone so thrilled at tha thought a’ shit.’

‘How long has the boy been working here?’

‘Och, what is it, more thana year now.’ He looks to Octavia for confirmation who nods.

‘He came shortly before winter last year when we got the new colts. Clarke’s lady’s maid recommended him, I remember. He was our best hire. Patience runs in their family. Indispensible, really, when dealing with noble breeds; be they man or beast.’

‘Aye, boy has a way with horses, no mistake. He might be too soft though. Takes spirit ta master tha spirited.’

‘What happened after he left?’

‘Nuthin extraordinary. Went down ta the kitchens for a bite, came back an’ turned in. An’ in case you’re wondering, I checked in on tha horses, Nightshade especially.’

Octavia rolls her eyes. ‘We’re leaving the naming to Clarke, Seamus.’

‘Aye, but we needed something to call ‘er in tha mean time. Anyways, I checked on Nightshade an’ she was snug and safe when I went to bed.’

‘You went straight to bed then?’

‘Just about. ‘Twas early yet, but I was darn beat after yesterday. Coul’ scarce keep ma eyes open long enough to get me clothes off. Got up before the sun taday as it was to be our last day o’ trainin’ wi’ Nightshade and I wanted her ta do her new mistress proud. Came down ta the stables an’ all was quiet, door was still closed and bared, there was no sign of foul play. Only when I looked in her stall did I see tha’ both she an’ her saddle were missin’. Well I hollered for Billy but he was still abed and hadna heard nuthin. ‘Ts when I called on Lady Octavia an’ the search began.’

Lexa doesn’t seem to notice right away that he’s stopped talking. She stands in the same motionless position, hands folded against her lips, eyes lidded.

‘The flower, on the table. Did you pick it?’

Seamus takes a moment to register the unexpected question. When he turns to the table his expression tells Lexa all she needs to know so that she’s barely listening when he expresses his surprise, moving to examine the flower instead.

‘Do these grow around here?’

‘Again with the plants. Brilliant plan, O, hiring a botanist to catch a horse thief?’

Lexa ignores him, turns instead to Octavia and raises a questioning eyebrow. She walks over to examine the flower. Shakes her head. 

The small flower with five split petals is a rich, velvety purple with a white center that almost glows in contrast. Not the kind of flower you’d miss. Not one Lexa has ever seen either.

‘May I take it?’

‘By all means. It means nuthin’ ta me.’

‘And I’m going to need to examine your and the stable boy’s boots.’

His forehead frowns and he looks at Octavia for confirmation that he should indeed carry out the preposterous request. She nods.

‘Lasses always did have their own funny way a’ doin’ things,’ he mutters not unkindly as he complies.

‘Does Clarke have any enemies? Anyone you could think of that might want to get even?’

Octavia frowns at the question. 

‘Enemies, no. She can be rather brash at times, but she’s well-liked. Envied for her beauty and skill perhaps, but nothing more. Although…’

‘Yes?’

‘There is one…he’s not an enemy, per se. Finn Collins. Courted her a while back. Only he behaved most shamefully at the time and Raven saw to it that the matter became well-known in high society to prevent other young women from the same. He didn’t take it well. But he doesn’t seem the sort to steal horses.’

‘Describe him to me.’

‘Ah what to say, typical nobleman’s son. Well-groomed, well-mannered. Thinks the world owes him something.’

‘I meant his appearance.’

Both siblings look at her oddly. 

‘Some would say handsome, I suppose. Long brown hair, dark eyes. Average height.’

‘Strong?’

Octavia scoffs. ‘Average, I suppose. Well-built. Not thin or over-weight. I could still best him easily in a fight.’

Lexa appraises her sinewy figure. Concludes it’s not an empty boast. 

‘Has he been here recently?’

‘Not since Bellamy had him over for hunting in the fall. Not that we know of, anyway.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not my favorite chapter but...onwards.


	4. The Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot accessorizes.

‘Lexa…Lexa!... WOODS.’

Lexa blinks slowly, waits for the room to come into focus before looking up. She’s sitting cross-legged in its center, back straight against the foot of the bed. Thinking.

A case in Austria once brought her across a Tibetan monk who had piqued her interest in meditation. Not as a means of relaxation or in search of inner tranquility, the mere thought the mere thought makes her antsy. But meditation allows her to block out trivial surroundings, replacing them with information; stacked, partitioned, reshuffled and reshaped. They’re not just scarps of words or images, but three-dimensional beings, alive; colored and given form according to their importance. Here the case comes to life as it moves through her mind palace, connects to a strip of information here, dons another like a well-tailored hat, repels some like loathsome smells, flirts with tidbits here and there, testing, teasing, unsure, till it emerges, better-formed, the missing areas clearer than ever.

That is, as long as she isn’t interrupted.

A sigh. ‘I cannot think with all the ruckus you make, Forrester.’

Anya rolls her eyes. ''Trust me, the image of you channeling whatever strange nether powers you employ is something I would sooner not witness. A boy’s arrived with a telegram which he refuses to give to anyone but you. Not that he’d know what you look like, mind.'

Lexa rises, pulls a dressing gown over her loose shirt and trousers, and goes into the sitting room. 

The boy is young, no more than 8 or 9, with threadbare clothes and a dirt-smudged face. His eyes are bright though, eager and determined. He's got character. After all, few can stand firm under Anya's glare without crumbling.

'I'm Alexandra Woods.'

He eyes her suspiciously, taking in her odd attire and trying to decide whether it's the sort of thing a detective would wear.

'You have a telegram for me?'

'Yes,' he replies, chest inflating slightly at the importance of his mission. 'From the Ashby Hall.'

'Well?' she asks, holding out her hand for it. 

He still looks unsure.

'You're the eldest in your family, but you have a least two younger siblings and a dog. You've come quite a ways from Bethnal Green this morning and you haven't had breakfast yet, though on the whole you're rather fond of hot chocolate. And perhaps most impressively, you've somehow managed to teach yourself to read.'

The boy looks at her in awe.

'Let's have that telegram, then,' she says, holding out her hand again.

The boy is more than happy to comply this time, placing it smartly in her hand and retreating out of her space.

She opens it quickly, musing on its contents while the room's other occupants wait expectantly.

'Well...' she begins, looking expectantly at the boy.

'Aden, detective.'

'Aden. I’m afraid this is the sort of telegram one must answer in person, so there won’t be a return message, but I've heard Denny's serves some of the best hot chocolate in the city.'

The boy looks wistfully downcast until she pops a shilling into his hand with a small smile. His eyes grow wide. Then a shadow crosses his face. He looks ready to protest, say he's already been paid for his service when Lexa shakes her head slightly.

'That is my down payment. I expect you to deliver my telegrams from now on. Trustworthy messengers are hard to come by.'

He glows at her words, straightening his posture to reflect a renewed feeling of self-importance.

'Yes ma'am,' he replies cheerfully, almost tripping over his feet as he tries to keep his eyes on her on the way out.

'Well, someone has a new fan,' Anya chuckles.

'Mmh?' Lexa asks, eyes already back on the telegram.

'What does it say?'

She passes it to her.

_Detective Woods,  
If you would come by Ashley Hall at your earliest convenience, I'd like to engage your services on a rather delicate matter. _

'Not signed.'

'No. Although the sender evidently has enough money to use many words where few would suffice.'

'I can think of three such women at Ashley Hall.'

'Indeed. Best be off then.'

\-------

The butler seemed a little less surprised to see her this time, her choice of wardrobe notwithstanding.

'I've received a telegram requesting my presence.'

'Ah yes. The dowager is expecting you.'

He takes her coat, disappears for a moment to put it away, and returns to lead her down the hall.

They come to a different room this time, smaller and cozier, with shelves of books though it seems too small to be the library. The decor is also lighter, pastel blues and creams, not the somber wood and leather which seem the norm for any nobleperson's library. 

A private sitting room, then. Perhaps the dowager's own.

'Trousers today? My word, you never cease to amaze do you?'

Naturally, Lexa's wardrobe consists of a range of outfits which she dons depending on the disguise or impression needed. Today she's opted to keep the trousers in case the marchioness had sent the message. She doesn't use it often, preferring to keep the thought of her disguised as a man out of people's minds, but a woman in menswear tends to provoke shock, and people are easier to read when caught off guard.

The dowager shows no discomfort or disapproval, only curiosity and perhaps a twinge of respect.

'You have a matter you wish to discuss with me?'

'Yes. Although if the gossip is accurate—well there's an oxymoron for you—your hands are quite full already.'

‘And yet you sent for me. The problem must be of some importance.’

‘Yes.’ She appraises Lexa again, perhaps looking for what exactly it was that made her call the detective in the first place.

‘Something of great value to me has been taken. And before you suggest it, I’m not senile and would never misplace the item in question. The last person to suggest it is now repolishing 256 pieces of silverware.’

‘I wouldn’t dare,’ Lexa replies neutrally. ‘Especially since it’s inaccurate.’

The dowager sniffs in approval.

‘It’s my son’s watch. Unlike jewels which can easily be procured if one has the means, this one _is_ a family heirloom of value to me. 

‘You might have heard that my son…well, to put it honestly he was a bit of a tinker, liked to take things apart and put them together again. He collected old watches as a boy, liked to dismantle them and discover how they worked. One day, he burst into my sitting room, face flushed with pride like the moment he realized he was actually in control of a horse. He’d gotten one to work, figured out what was wrong, replaced a piece with a similar one from another watch, greased the gears. I don’t remember the particulars, only the look of pure delight on his face.’ She smiles wanly at the memory.

‘He never took it off after that, repaired it himself when it stopped. No matter that it was scratched or battered. When Abigail would protest that it was unfashionable, he would only smile and say it had character. And so it did, much like the man himself. Of his own making, mind you, not the pre-molded character of most.

‘According to tradition, and Abigail is always one for tradition, the watch should be passed to his male heir, but I haven’t the stomach to see it given to some preening lad, however hard he might have to work to win Clarke’s affections. I’ve lived far too long to put up with nonsense like that. No, the watch is Clarke’s, as it should be, and I planned to present it to her for Christmas. Jake was found of Christmas, you see, and would’ve liked that.’

She grows quiet as bittersweet emotions play across her face.

Lexa waits patiently. Usually she would’ve interrupted the speaker by now, asked them to focus on the events pertaining to the crime at hand rather than old memories tainted by repeated emotional revisiting. Or, depending on the speaker’s fragility, she may have allowed them to speak, but tuned them out and used the time more profitably. But she did neither. The memory of this man seemed important somehow.

‘I apologize. I am not usually so sentimental.’

Lexa sees the truth of that in her face. She’s sharp, speaks her mind and knows how to get her way, but relies on wit and reason rather than emotion to do so.

She nods slightly, acknowledging her words without drawing unwanted attention to them.

‘When was it taken?’

‘Yes, I suppose ‘taken’ is the right word. Last night. It was in its usual spot on the mantelpiece, in a small box Jake made for it. I took it out just before supper, noticed that it had stopped and wondered whether I should have a man in to look at it, then thought better of it. If Jake took pleasure in repairing it, Clarke might as well. In any case, it would be her decision whether or not to break his habits and ask for outside help. Having made my decision, I replaced the watch and joined Clarke and Abigail for an early supper.’

Lexa scribbles a few notes.

‘When did you return to your room?’

‘Almost straightaway. My wits rarely fail me, but this old frame gets rather tired, especially in the cold. When I entered the room, I had a peculiar feeling. It appeared undisturbed, but something nagged at my mind and I looked around. I know now it was the flower.’

‘The flower?’

‘Yes, but I only really saw it later. I checked the box first.’

‘And it was empty.’

‘It was. The flower was on the mantelpiece nearby. I asked my lady’s maid if she had brought it in and she claimed she’d never seen it before today.’

‘May I see your room?’

‘Of course. There’s one other thing, Miss Woods. Clarke is not to know. She did not know I intended to give it to her, and she needn’t know it’s gone missing. Not if you do your job and recover it, that is.’

Lexa nods.

The room is grand as befits a noblewoman, but not overstated. The four-poster bed takes up most of the room, flanked by a dresser with an ornate mirror, and a fireplace. The wardrobe is elsewhere, which Lexa imagines gives the maids better access to its contents. A large, Persian rug covers the floor between the door and the bed.

Lexa stoops to this immediately, probing it for patches of wetness or smudges of foreign substances that could hint at the intruder’s origins. The stains she finds are old, though, dry and worn. She does collect a couple fibers for closer inspection.

The mantelpiece is well-carved, polished to a sheen that belies its age. A pity really. Dust is often a paradise of clues.

She sees the flower next. It’s hard to miss. Its vibrant violet petals and white center tease, beckon, mock. 

It’s a game then. She supposes she started it. Her opponent is merely checking in, letting her know they accept the challenge. The thrill of the chase ripples through her.

She lifts it gently two fingers just at the base of the blossom. She sniffs the stem first—senses the puzzled furrow in the dowager’s brow as she does so—then the flower. It’s fresh, has perhaps only been out of water since last night’s crime.

‘May I take this?’

‘Why certainly. Who would want taunting evidence a stranger crept into their bedroom?’

Who indeed? Lexa muses, ‘Besides me.’

She’ll put it in the vase on her own mantelpiece next to the other. Something to look at while she thinks, to make her heart pound and pump extra blood into her brain, each beat bringing her closer to the answer.

She turns to the box. It’s simple, the original carving retouched years later judging by the difference in knife marks. The thief took a broken watch when there were jewels and candlesticks and even a mirror in the chamber that are worth more. If there was any doubt in her mind it’s gone now. The other items were valuable, this one hardly so, at least not to people outside this house. There’s a deeper motive afoot, and it keeps coming back to the person the gifts were intended for.

Lexa leans over the mantelpiece to look out the window. Not too high up. There are trees nearby. The dowager claims it hasn’t been opened in months and once again, there isn’t enough dust to tell a story. Still, it would explain the lack of trace on the carpet.

‘I’d like a look at the garden, if you don’t mind.’

\-------

Lexa’s boots crunch and slosh through the mesh of ice and half-melted slow. Tracks show that two dogs, one large—one medium-sized with a limp in his left hind leg—and a squirrel have been this way. No humans. Not since the last snowfall yesterday morning, anyway. She moves to check the area under the tree, knowing she’ll find nothing, needing to see all the same.

She’s walking back to the front door when the clatter of hooves catches her attention. She looks up to see two riders turning the bend.

_Clarke Griffin._

Seamus was right, she certainly can handle herself on a horse. It’s impressive to witness, the equestrian in Lexa admiring how the tricky ground is barely a factor as she guides her stallion expertly through it.

_Good eyesight too._

The other rider is her lady’s maid, Lorna, cousin to the Blakes’ stable boy. She’s not bad on a horse either, though she follows the path set by Clarke. Lexa notes that she also rides astride her mare, calling something to Clarke that makes the heiress laugh as they pull up to the front door just as Lexa arrives.

‘Why, if it isn’t Detective Woods,’ Clarke calls, voice merry and slightly breathless from her ride. ‘I didn’t expect to find you on my doorstep.’

She slips her foot nimbly out of the stirrup, swings it over the saddle and hops down; a triumphant arrival worthy of any skilled equestrian. Except she lands on an ice patch and both feet fly out from under her. Lexa’s there in a flash, catching her just as she’s about to go down.

They freeze for a moment, breathing hard, brains catching up with adrenalin-fueled reflexes. Lexa grits her mind, willing her thudding heart to calm. Her eyes flicker across the noblewoman’s face, flushed from the ride, lips parted slightly from the surprise of the fall, eyes…she dare not linger there. They’re sharp, alluring, playful yet cunning. Dangerous.

A tongue pokes out of chapped lips.

‘Much obliged, detective.’

Lexa snaps back to her senses, helps Clarke away from the ice patch and takes a respectable step back.

Clarke looks at her, eyes traveling leisurely from head to toe. Like her grandmother there is curiosity in her gaze. And something altogether different. Something that flutters sharply through Lexa’s stomach not altogether pleasantly. She digs her feet into the ground, willing the ripples through her legs and into the solid earth lest she lose her ability to look the girl in the eye. She’s never one to break a stare first.

Clarke smiles slowly.

‘So what brings you here? I would think Mother’s warm farewell on Thursday would’ve put you off for good.’

‘There’s been a development in the case. A mare stolen from the Blake’s estate. I’ve come to speak with your lady’s maid.’

Lexa believes she deserves a medal for the quick excuses and cool, even tone of her voice when her insides have been in a drunken uproar since the smile.

‘Oh how intriguing. By all means, detective, come inside and speak away. You don’t mind, do you, Lorna?’ she adds, looking over her shoulder to the girl who’s also dismounted.

‘No, Miss,’ she replies dutifully.

\-------

They settle in the hall when Lexa assures them it won’t take long and the women opt to put off changing until she’s done. Clarke stays, perched a little way away to Lexa’s left in an attempt to give the two women space to converse without feeling the need to include her.

‘The Blakes’ stable boy is your cousin.’

‘Billy, yes. We’ve known each other our whole lives.’

‘And what kind of person is he?’

‘Oh you know, regular, I suppose. Loves horses. Always has. Wanted to grow up to be a horse tamer, he did. Was right thrilled when I suggested to Miss Griffin the Blakes hire him.’

Lexa watches her closely, the distracted biting of her lip, the forefinger that digs into her thumbs cuticle.

‘And when did you see him last?’

‘I don’t rightly know. Must’ve been a week or so ago. I often see him when I accompany Miss Griffin to the Blakes’ estate.

Clarke shifts slightly.

Lexa feels the weight of her presence, her left side tingling at the proximity, her mind tuned to the slightest sound or wisp of movement, scrambling to combine the scraps of information into coherent images. She wills herself to remain focused on the maid.

‘Do you often accompany Miss Griffin on her visits?’

‘Why…yes ma’am. That is, she often requires assistance…’

‘I ask her along,’ Clarke interrupts. ‘I sometimes need a change of clothes or an adjustment to my hairdo, or even just some decent company. Lorna here is quite good at all of them.’

Lexa feels a prickle inside her. What else is Lorna good at? Why does it nag at her?

She pushes it down. _Later._

‘Well, I believe I have everything I need.’

Clarke nods. ‘Lorna would you fetch Miss Woods’s coat.’

The maid scurries off obediently.

‘If there’s anything else you need, do come back. Don’t mind mother, she’s always been slightly disagreeable so we’ve learned to just carry on and have fun where we find it anyway. And I must say, this whole case has got me rather intrigued.’

Lexa nods. ‘Your assistance is appreciated, Miss Griffin.’

Clarke smiles again, not unkindly, but perhaps slightly teasing. Funny how a smile can say so very many things.

Lorna returns and helps her into her coat.

‘Until we meet again,’ Lexa says, tipping her hat.

‘May it be soon,’ Clarke replies with a nod.

\-------

‘Three then, or four if you count the jewels.’

‘Possibly,’ Lexa replies. ‘There was no actual evidence of a connection if you discount the flower, which could’ve been placed there by anyone who’d heard of the horse theft and wanted me to make the connection to keep them out of it.’

‘Mmh, could be,’ Anya muses, ‘it is the only item that was taken that doesn’t have much resale value.’

‘Yes, but there’s still the connection to Miss Griffin.’

Her mind jumps on the thought unbidden, flooding with sensory memories of the heiress. She feels the warm weight of her against her side; in her arms, if she dares be honest. The mischievous smile. The eyes. She feels a pull in her stomach, a longing to solve the mystery of those eyes, unpack the churning layers they hold.

‘…and of course you’re not listening again.’

Lexa snaps her attention back to Anya, tries to replay her words from her recent memory.

‘You know I never listen when you go off about the tenuous links between my evidence and theories.’

‘Is that what it is? Or have thoughts of a certain blonde noblewoman caused your brain to malfunction?’

Lexa scowls, wills herself not to blush.

‘Considering the scintillating gift that is my company, I’m rather inclined to believe the latter.’ 

Still Lexa does not give her the satisfaction of a reply.

‘Admit it, though, you’re pretty much just running after the thief looking at the trail they’ve left.’

‘Ah, so far. But I intend to preempt them.’

‘How?’

‘Clarke is the key.’ Her ears tinge when she slips and uses her first name. She hurries on in the hope that Anya won’t notice and return to her needling. ‘The only thing the items have in common so far is that they were all intended for her. We just need to find the next item on that list.’

‘Lord Kane.’

‘The very same. Served with her father in the army. Friend of the family since. I’ll wager he’s planning on gifting her something for Christmas.’

‘Mh, you might actually have a solid lead, Woods.’

‘That and the flower. According to the botanist it’s in the verbena family, mostly native to South America. I’ve made a list of where it can be found in and around London.’

Lexa reaches into her coat pocket to pull out her notebook, frowns. She retrieves the notebook, then reaches back in, checks her other pockets. The frown deepens. She crosses the room to the coat hanger, checks through the pockets of the overcoat she wore that day.

‘What seems to be the problem?’ Anya asks, only half interested now that Lexa’s notebook is in her hands and she’s rifling through the pages.

‘My pen. I must’ve misplaced it. Though I certainly had it when speaking to the dowager and I came directly here afterwards.’

Anya’s eyes sparkle maliciously. ‘Perhaps the thief took it to have a little something to remember you by, seems only fair since they gave you flowers. They do seem to be the sentimental sort, and everyone knows you can’t live without that pen.’

Lexa frowns again. ‘Don’t be daft, I’ve only misplaced it.’

But before the words leave her mouth she knows they aren’t true. She never misplaces anything, least of all the tools of her trade. She had the pen, it was in her pocket, now it isn’t.

Through no action of her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bla, bla, bla, life is crazy and it's a mess again, but happy winter solstice! I'm still hoping to get the whole thing up before the new year.


	5. The Sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot arms itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holigays, my lovelies.

Lord Kane is exactly what you'd expect when you hear the word 'nobleman'; refined, polite and distant, with his impeccably-coiffed graying hair and tailored suit. Superior.

He agrees to see Lexa at the mention of Clarke’s name, though he meets her standing in the atrium, with a slightly put-upon air that warns her their meeting will be brief. 

Brevity suits Lexa just fine.

She explains the particulars of the case to him, leaving out any mention of the watch and some of the conclusions she’s drawn from the evidence. Vagueness is largely preferable to trust.

‘And you believe the thief will come here next.’

‘Based on your history with the Marchioness’s family, I assumed you plan to present her with a gift as well.’

He nods; motions her to follow him. 

They walk in silence through the east wing, steps echoing through the halls. Two flights of stairs bring them to what seems to be the more private section of the manse. The second room to the right is wide and cool, with a high ceiling and long, narrow windows, a mix between an armory and display room. An impressive range of swords, daggers, guns, and other more exotic weapons brought from Asia, Africa, and the Continent decorate the walls, interspersed with warrior statues of stone, bronze, and wood; an ode to warcraft and might. 

He walks to a small stand near the front of the room from which he lifts an infantry sword and hands it to Lexa. She slips it out of the sheath, tests its balance, twirling and slicing through the air. It’s a touch better than the one she has at home, a gift from a colonel she’d helped last year. The balance between hilt and blade is perfect, handle adjusted slightly which Lexa knows will facilitate varying combat styles. The steel is strong enough to parry most blows and light enough to be twirled one-handed. A formidable weapon. The Marchess’s coat of arms is engraved near the hilt.

‘Her father and I fought together in the Crimean war. He despised guns and refused to carry one, thought killing over disagreements a barbaric practice. He devoted most of his time during the way to building defenses that minimized death, was brilliant at designing structures from rudimentary material. He was a master swordsman though, and carried a sword for defense purposes; a sword much like this one which was lost in an ambush. 

‘Clarke shares his skill with the blade, though she has largely lost interest in it after his death. I was hoping this gift might entice her to fence again.’

‘It seems the perfect. Will you have guards on the property tonight?’

‘I wasn’t expecting to, only extra footmen. It’s Christmas Eve and we’re having a small dinner party to celebrate.’

‘If you would like the sword to still be here by the end of the evening I recommend placing guards at the door of the room and both the main and servants’ entrances.’

‘I could also have the sword moved to my vault.’

‘That could work, but the thief is clever and resourceful, and in all previous cases possessed intimate knowledge of how the households were run. Guards would be the safest course of action.’

‘Then guards will be hired, detective. I may not share your level of concern, but I am not opposed to taking precautions. I shall summon both you and Scotland Yard if anything out of the ordinary transpires. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have arrangements to make for this evening.’

\-------

It’s a clear night, all but the biggest stars dwarfed by the moon’s radiance. One could say it’s magical, nature’s beauty complementing the yuletide gayness. 

Others, perhaps fewer in number, might observe that it’s the perfect night for an evening climb up a brick wall and a nimble sprint across a roof. The black-clad figure standing on Lord Kane’s eastern roof is one of those few. 

Muffled sounds of merriment can be heard coming from the great hall. The feast is well underway then. Perfect.

They swiftly undo the rope hooked to the to the tower window, checking that the modified grappling hook is still intact. They move quickly to the chimney nearest the edge, refasten the rope, and lower themselves to the high window which hasn’t been opened in decades. A small knife is inserted between the engorged wood and the frame. It takes only a few minutes to pry it loose. 

With the window open, the figure slips silently through the window and shimmies down the rope to land on the wooden floor with a near imperceptible thud. 

A pause. 

Not a sound from the guards posted outside. 

They unhook the rope and move quickly to the side of the room, heading straight for the sword in the wan moonlight. No hesitation or need to get their bearings. The room is familiar. They lift it slowly, almost reverently, testing the weight in their hands, palm opening and closing probingly around the hilt.

‘Replace the sword and turn, slowly.’

They freeze, brain whirring in search of an explanation for their captor’s presence. Then a slow smile spreads across their lips.

‘The statues,’ they state in a stage-whisper that carries easily across the room while obscuring the voice. ‘I forgot to count the statues. 

‘The statues,’ Lexa confirms, stepping out of the shadows where she’d been standing motionless in a dark cloak between a replica of a Roman centurion and African warlord. She keeps her revolver trained on the thief’s masked face. ‘The sword, if you please.’

‘Oh I don’t think so,’ they reply, a hint of amusement in their whisper.

A woman’s voice, Lexa determines. Right so far.

‘You’re not going to shoot me, detective,’ she continues casually, ‘so you may as well put the gun down.’

Lexa shrugs, tosses the gun aside. ‘Suits me. I can think of at least seven more amusing ways to stop you.’ 

‘Can you?’ she asks, tone implying a raised eyebrow.

She draws the sword slowly, relishing the sound as it slips out of the scabbard. 

Lexa can’t help a small smile. It’s been a while since she’s had the pleasure. She moves to the nearest wall and takes down the nearest blade. It’s lighter. Japanese, perhaps. 

The thief has stepped back from the wall and is waiting for her in an open space near the center. No attempt to escape then. She’s enjoying this as much as Lexa.

The first few blows are light, exploratory, measuring the other’s strengths. 

‘You didn’t trust the guards then?’ she asks between parries.

‘On the contrary, they served the very purpose for which they were intended.’

‘Which was?’ she advances, four quick thrusts pushing Lexa back a few paces.

‘Sweetening the pot, luring you in.’ Lexa meets her blows, regaining space. 

‘I’m an impatient woman and did not fancy the thought of waiting for you to come at your pleasure,’ she continues, twirling, delivering a glancing blow that knocks her off balance, forcing her to duck and roll to avoid the downward slice.

‘I guessed your flair for danger and determined you’d prefer to make your move when the target was hardest to obtained. I have plans tomorrow, you see. Much preferred to get this sorted today.’

The thief chuckles, feints right then swings. Lexa steps right instead of back, moving into her opponent’s space and flicking her blade at the back of the mask. 

A strand of hair tumbles loose. Lexa stares, momentarily thrown by its color.

Her hesitation gives the intruder the opening she needs to send a crossing blow that knocks her sword from her hand. She smiles victoriously.

Lexa maintains her stance fearlessly, less than a meter between them, stares into the shadowed eyes. 

‘That’s that then,’ the thief whispers, swinging her arm around to slowly bring her sword to Lexa’s neck. 

In a flash Lexa spins into her space, ramming her right elbow into her bicep, fingers digging into the sword-holding wrist, finding the points that will force the hand open. The sword is dropped, caught in Lexa’s left hand, spun to the thief’s neck. 

They’re inches apart, thudding hearts and shallow breaths too loud in the silence, eager blade tickling the strip of exposed neck.

‘I yield,’ the thief husks, raising both arms in the air between them.

A beat. Lexa’s brain whirs. There’s something…she wishes she could the eyes hidden by the darkness. There’s something important she’s missing. 

It’s the last thought she has as she crumples to the floor.


	6. The Heiress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot is unmasked.

Lexa comes to groggily. Her head feels sore and heavy and she raises her hand to inspect the damage. 

Except she can’t.

Her hands are tied, or rather handcuffed by the feel of it, behind her. Likely with her own cuffs. She smiles at the irony. 

She’s only been beaten once before, and that by a man. This time has been more enjoyable by far.

It’s only been about ten to fifteen minutes since she was knocked out, judging by the slant of the moonlight coming through the window. The thief could still be within reach if only…

She looks towards the door, thinking of the guards stationed there. Surely they would’ve heard something and come to investigate by now. 

‘If you’re thinking of calling the guards I’m afraid I sent them away.’

She freezes, turns to her left. Sure enough, the thief is still there, lounging casually against the wall as she inspects her loot.

‘I hope you don’t mind, I just wanted some time alone and well your voice isn’t all that difficult to imitate. They were eager enough to believe me when I told them you’d just accidentally knocked some armor over and on second thought you didn’t really think the thief would show after all. They were odd in a flash. After all, no one really wants to stay late on Christmas Eve.’

Her voice is still a whisper, but the style…

‘Well I suppose that’s that,’ Lexa replies carefully. ‘Why are you still here?’ 

A pause.

‘You hit your head when you went down. I wanted to make sure you were alright.’

Lexa feels her heartbeat in the lump on the right side of her head. Nothing too bad.

‘Sleeping powder. On your hands or wrists. The same you used on the flower you left for the fake Scotsman.’

‘Fake Scotsman?’ She sounds genuinely puzzled.

‘Seamus. Though I imagine his name is Tom or Henry or Dan. It’s the way he talks. He has the accent down all right, but he uses very few Scottish words and only the most obvious ones that are generally well-known to the British; they’re used purposefully rather than accidentally. American, I believe, considering he said ‘darn beat’. But many people hide their identity and he was obviously not involved in this affair, so I didn’t pursue the matter.’

‘You never questioned Finn either.’

She’s gotten comfortable, leaning slightly as they speak. Curiosity akin to Lexa’s perhaps.

‘Why bother? The size, depth and distance between footprints indicated a shorter, lighter person than Mr. Collins.’

‘Like a woman perhaps.’

‘Very much like that.’ Lexa’s lips twitch upwards despite herself.

The thief turns, grasps the sword she’s fastened to a sort of sling and swings it onto her back, leaving her hands free to climb out the way she came. 

‘Well detective,’ Clarke says testing the rope, ‘while our little rendezvous has been most enjoyable, I’m afraid I must dash, Christmas toasts with the family and such.’

‘Oh but Miss Griffin, I still have a question or two,’ Lexa breathes inches from her ear.

Clarke freezes as cuffs clamp down around her wrist. All it took for Lexa to get the jump on her was a second with her back turned. 

Lexa stands perfectly still behind her, taking in her scent. It’s the smell she caught first at the Earl’s manse, then on the flowers left, and a whiff in the sitting room where she questioned the maidservant. A smell she thought was left by serving hands rather than the one they serve.

‘But how…?’ Clarke asks, turning to face her.

‘Oh come now, every self-respecting detective has a lockpick sewn into the seam of their jacket.’

Clarke smiles, nods her respect. 

Lexa reaches to remove her mask, hands more gentle than she’d care to admit. She falters at the closeness of the dark eyes watching her, feels them connect and pull at something within. She quickly steps back out of Clarke’s space. The distance increases her sense of control. 

‘You didn’t know who I was before now,’ Clarke says pensively. ‘My hair color threw you off.’

Lexa flushes, wonders if it can be seen in the dark.

‘No. I thought it was your maid.’

‘Lorna?’ Clarke asks, eyes widening.

‘It fit,’ Lexa counters. ‘She has roughly your height and build and was frequently present at the houses in question and familiar with the other servants. I found a strand of hair that matched hers on the table where the painting was taken, as well as on the door frame at the stables. There was a blond strand on the table as well, only I imagined she could’ve easily picked that up from you while doing your hair. I see now it was the other way around. She is a skilled rider and could easily have gotten away on horseback in the moonlight. And furthermore there’s a boy in the Earl’s kitchen who’s sweet on her and could’ve helped her carry out the painting.

‘How did you manage it? The others are quite clear to me now, but you were at the party and would’ve been seen carrying out the painting as you left.’

Clarke laughs reminiscently. ‘It’s remarkable what one can fit under those party dresses. I slipped in earlier with one of the food deliveries, removed the keys from old Hughes’s room, and headed upstairs to secure the painting. Only, on my way down I saw that Hughes was now in the kitchen and meticulously scrutinizing anything carried in or out. He never trusted the cook. I was in disguise, but that old butler has caught me and Wells up to so much mischief over the years I didn’t trust him not to recognize me. So I slipped into the powder room, left the painting in a vase there, easily walked out empty-handed, and came back for it during the party.’

She ends with a little triumphant wave of her hands, at least as much of one as the cuffs allow.

Lexa tries not to smirk at the display of bravado.

‘Did your maid help you gather information?’

‘Oh not intentionally. She loves to gossip, that one. Will talk for hours if I’m willing to listen. All I had to do was take her along with me, let her mingle with the other households and voilà the next morning I would get the full scoop.’

Lexa is thoughtful. 

‘If she was oblivious to it all, why was she so nervous when I questioned her? She couldn’t even meet my eyes.’

Clarke chuckles impishly. ‘Ah detective, that is quite simply because young Lorna has fancied you for years.’

Clarke’s amusement only grows as Lexa’s brow furrows in confusion. 

‘I don’t understand.’

Clarke cocks her head, appraises her for a moment. 

‘You really don’t do you? It all started with admiration at your skill when she read about one of your cases, grew to infatuation as she collected newspaper clippings on your exploits.’ A chuckle. ‘She was almost frozen on the spot at the thought of serving you tea. I thought she might have a turn when you asked to question her. Oh we must tell her you thought it was her. She’ll be right thrilled.’

Lexa blushes hard, first at the thought of someone having a crush on her, then at her thinking it so unlikely it cost her the case. But even worse is Clarke’s frank amusement with it all. She feels hot under her collar.

‘But…why? You have no motive. The things you stole were all intended for you anyway. Why take them? Surely a noblewoman’s boredom is not that extreme.’

Clarke cocks an eyebrow at the insinuation but decides to answer the question instead. 

‘Raven Reyes.’

Lexa chews her bottom lip, trying to think of where she might have heard the name in her investigations.

‘She was my father’s…well I suppose apprentice is the best word for it. They both loved trying their hands at fanciful new inventions, like this one,’ she nods toward the pulley system that let her down through the window. ‘I was never much good at all that, but Raven,’ a smile, ‘you should’ve seen how she and my father would light up as they fed off each other’s ideas. She’s one of the few people that treated me…well normal after his death.

‘I was in her workshop—she kept on trying to bring their ideas to life—telling her I dreaded the holiday season. He was big on Christmas—you couldn’t help getting caught up in it when he was around—and I just knew it would be one big pity party, everyone tip-toeing around me with kid gloves and meaningful condolences. I couldn’t take it anymore. Do you know how exhausting it is to receive pity?’

Lexa thinks that she does, that it may be part of the reason she crafted a self-sufficient identity for herself.

‘Raven—she always did like a bit of mischief that one—said she’d give me her present early. Not much of a present, mind you, a dare. She dared me to find out what everyone was giving me for Christmas and take it first. You really must understand that Raven and I don’t take dares lightly. If I succeeded, I could ask her for one favor in return. And if you knew Raven Reyes, you’d know that is a prize of inestimable worth.’

‘And if you fail?’

Clarke wrinkles her nose. ‘If I fail I have to kiss Bellamy Blake before the year is out.’

Lexa’s tastes bile at the thought. 

‘I was close too. You are very good, detective,’ she adds, casting her eyes back to Lexa. ‘Better perhaps than your reputation.’

Lexa inclines her head in acknowledgement of the praise. She’s used to it by now. It shouldn’t make her feel warm and uncomfortable and tingly. It does anyway.

‘Lexa, please,’ she says, feeling like the woman who would’ve managed to outwit her had she not waited to make sure she was ok deserves at least that.

‘As are you, Miss Griffin,’ she adds, thinking that the range of skills the thefts required are not usually those you’d expect a young noblewoman to possess.

‘Clarke. I believe playing with handcuffs has put us on a first name basis.’

The airy room feels too hot again.

‘What did you plan to do with them?’

‘Not sure. The deal was to turn them over to Raven and she would plan a big reveal for Christmas luncheon. Said it would help liven the party up.’

Lexa can only imagine. This Raven sounds like nothing but well-orchestrated trouble. One of those few people worth meeting.

‘Well, Lexa,’ Clarke says, testing the name, ‘where to now?’

The clock bells chime, ringing out the hour. One, two, three, it goes on long, time enough for Lexa to make up her mind. 

The twelfth stroke leaves them in silence. Midnight. Christmas day.

She wills her hands to keep steady as she takes out her lockpick and undoes the cuffs.

‘Merry Christmas, Clarke,’ she whispers stepping back again.

Clarke looks at her, puzzled. Then smiles in a way that makes Lexa absolutely sure she did the right thing in making sure those lips weren’t touched by the floppy-haired ego. 

‘Thank you,’ Clarke says. 

Lexa is just appreciating that her voice is still husky when she’s not whispering and she really should’ve known sooner, when Clarke unexpectedly leans forward and places a kiss on her cheek. A kiss that burns and tingles down her neck. She forgets how to swallow air.

Clarke looks down, retrieves her mask and hides her face and hair. She checks that the sword is still secured to her back then reaches for the rope. 

‘Come to tea on Boxing Day. Mother will be out and only Granny will be around as chaperone. I’ll give you a full account of everyone’s reactions.’

Lexa considers it, remembers how much she loathes social functions, opens her mouth to make an acceptable excuse.

‘Oh say you will. I have to return your pen after all,’ she adds, sensing her resistance.

‘How _did_ you take that?’ Lexa asks. ‘Lorna and the butler were the only ones who had access to my coat.’

‘Ah but I had access to you.’

Objectively, Lexa is sure it’s far too dark for Clarke to see her blush. Intuitively, she’s sure Clarke knows and enjoys flustering her.

‘Come now, you don’t really think I didn’t see the ice. I suspected you had good reflexes and your arms certainly looked strong enough to catch me.’

Lexa isn’t sure what to do with the information that Clarke has been analyzing her. Not knowing what to do with information is a strange new feeling. 

‘I would’ve noticed,’ she says, but her tone is uncertain.

Clarke chuckles good-naturedly. 

‘Ah, detective, I’ve had enough suitors to know what they do and do not notice. Attention is a fickle thing.’

Lexa knows this. She constantly reiterates this to others. She is a master of attention. She… _wait was she just likened to suitors?_

‘See you tomorrow, Lexa.’

And with that, Lexa is left to watch her expertly climb the rope and slip out the window.

\-------

‘By Artemis, why do your good moods always mean I get no more than a few hours sleep?’ Anya groans, bursting into the sitting room where Lexa is midway through a rendition of one of Bach’s suites on her violin.

She collapses into the worn armchair, arm thrown lazily over her face to block what sunlight has managed to stream through the gap in the curtains. 

Lexa continues to play, undeterred. The blonde eyes her quizzically.

‘Well look at you, you’re not just in a good mood, you’re practically perky. Doesn’t suit you in the slightest,’ she adds, wrinkling her nose. ‘Catch your thief then?’

‘Not at all,’ Lexa replies cheerily. ‘Lord Kane entered the room at 1 am to find me passed out in the corner, courtesy of sleeping powder. He was terribly cross that I failed to both catch and identify the thief. I didn’t get my fee.’

Anya is eyeing her as if she’s ready to take her pulse and check other vitals before committing her to the asylum, when the doorbell rings. She gets up with another groan when Lexa makes no move to get it.

After a few muttered words the door closes again and Anya returns with a bouquet of vibrant violet flowers with white centers.

Lexa grins.

She puts down the violin, takes the flowers from Anya and makes for the other two that have already begun to whither. 

‘So you’re really telling me you didn’t meet this mysterious thief last night who is now sending you flowers.’

‘Mm-hmm,’ Lexa hums distractedly, carefully arranging the flowers in the vase.

‘She’s just sending you flowers for no apparent reason then.’

‘Correct. Must be a vile victory taunt.’

‘Which has now broken your face into an unnatural expression of joy. Do you have a plan to bring her down then?’

‘What?’ Lexa asks, choosing the smallest flower and placing it in her suit pocket. ‘Oh no. It’s Christmas. They’re done now and with no new evidence it will be most impossible to track them down.’

Anya looks at her in disbelief.

‘Who are you and what have you done with Alexandra Woods?’

Lexa smiles. 

‘Come along. Lincoln is waiting. You’re terribly grumpy this morning and some food will do you good.’

Anya huffs, pulling on her coat. Thinking that where there’s food there will be drink and where there’s drink she might just be able to uncover whatever strange spell has turned her conveniently sullen friend into a grinning buffoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Et voilà. Here ends yet another one-shot that turned into a beast. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. If there's anything I haven't wrapped up yet feel free to ask in the comments or over on [tumblr](http://i-like-heda.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Merry new year's eve eve, me hearties.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll try to post it all before the end of the year. Meaning that the rush will undoubtedly result in messy plot holes and mediocre writing. You have been warned. 
> 
> Also, have fun. I am. ;p


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